


might as well live up to the expectations

by finalizer



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (2014), Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Guardians of the Galaxy - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, and then it steadily spirals out of control, guilty as charged, u know when you ship something as a joke at first
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-25
Updated: 2016-08-31
Packaged: 2018-02-18 17:54:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2356958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finalizer/pseuds/finalizer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Rocket spends his free time teasing Peter and Ronan about the ambiguous nature of their friendship and they take it upon themselves to give him exactly what he wants.</p><p>Or, the story of how two idiots learned that there's nothing pretend about their pretend relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Buildup

**Author's Note:**

> remember, kids, don't let yourselves joke ship anything, ever. it will stop being a joke and you will die.
> 
> ft. bonus round: spot the marvel cameo

It all started with Gamora leaving for a few days to attend some fancy ass internship interview at some fancy ass Ivy League university. With an inhuman GPA and killer test scores, she was on the right track to scoring the job, with a chance of a full-out scholarship on the side. There was a likely chance she wasn’t even human: no one was _that_ good at everything.

Unfortunately for Peter, that meant she was also on the right track to disappearing from his life forever. Maybe not _forever_ , but he needed her steady guidance, or he’d fuck up his whole life in a matter of days.

The deal was this — Peter was scared. Horrified, terrified and _honest to god_ traumatized by what Rocket was capable of during Gamora’s absences. In their inner circle, she was the one that laid out the ground rules and made sure they were followed. And without Gamora, there was chaos. Without her, Rocket was free to harass Peter in any way that he wished.

 

_Actually, no._

The whole thing started a few months before she left, if Peter were to be entirely honest with himself.

See, he and Ronan weren’t exactly friends at first. To most people it likely came off as the exact opposite — sworn enemies for all eternity.

Then, over the long and twisted span of a few months, it turned out that this new guy wasn’t as bad of a guy as they’d all expected him to be.

It most likely had everything to do with that Nebula character, Ronan’s now ex-girlfriend, and his endless struggle to impress her tyrannical father for whatever reason. In the end, Ronan had managed to weave his way out of the toxic dependency and, to some degree, fall into rhythm with Peter’s crew, as a sort of part-time commitment for him. It was weird, but it worked.

 

Which leads us to the moment, a month or two ago, where Peter may or may not have absentmindedly made a comment about Ronan’s quote, _pretty eyes,_ unquote. For the record, he’d been intoxicated as all fuck that particular night, but Rocket never let it go. Rocket never forgot and, that day, Rocket had found his calling.

 

/

 

“So, you see,” Rocket was saying, “this is why we don’t blend the coffee without the blender top on.”

Rocket was covered, head to toe, in whipped cream and chunks of various unidentifiable ice cream flavors, standing awkwardly off to the side as if he was scared the blender would turn back on by itself at any given moment.

It was barely ten minutes past nine, so technically, he still had a while to clean up before any morning customers wandered in through the door of the shop.

“You don’t say,” Peter mumbled back, unimpressed, because Rocket had a long history of failing to follow simple work ethic guidelines. There was, for example, the epic crème brûlée incident of 2011, but Rocket didn’t speak of it, and he threatened to drop kick anyone who dared.

Rocket visibly deflated — he’d probably been hoping that Peter was going to offer help ( _wouldn’t that be something_ ) but socially acceptable manners were clearly out of the question.

“I’ll stick to counter duty today,” Peter went on, paying no attention to Rocket’s struggles to wriggle himself out of his soaked apron, “you handle the kitchen.”

Rocket tripped over something and fell over, his line of sight still obscured by the goddamn apron. “Yeah, because I’m clearly best at making the coffee.”

Actually, it was because, aside from his long history of breaking every rule in existence, Rocket also had a long (maybe even longer) history of being a jerk. Like, that level of jerk where he’d once ended up getting slapped by an angry customer whose baby he’d called a beady eyed gremlin. He later shrugged it off as a harmless joke, as Groot held an ice pack to his swelling cheek — Groot was the only person capable of spending more than five minutes within five feet of Rocket without the immediate urge to strangle him — they were the world’s most mismatched duo, for all intents and purposes.

“If you don’t help me up, I’m not going to make a single drop of coffee today, Quill,” Rocket grumbled from where he’d apparently gotten himself jammed under the counter.

 

In the end, the first few guests to enter the café were subjected to the sight of an apparent game of tug of war behind the counter. Whereas, in reality, Rocket was just irrationally ticklish and refused to let Peter hoist him up by the crooks of his arms. Peter tucked the newly acquired information away for future reference. Blackmail was sweet but leverage was sweeter.

 

Halfway into the day, the sky cracked in two and the downpour that followed caused Rocket to freeze in his tracks and gaze outside despairingly with a painfully quiet, “I don’t have an umbrella with me.”

 

Finally, an hour or so before the end of their shift, a familiar black motorcycle revved to a stop before the glass double doors at the front of the shop.

Rocket actually had the gall to wolf whistle as the bell chimed and Ronan walked inside, shrugging off his jacket and attempting to shake some of the rainwater out of his hair with his free hand. All he was missing was the telltale sparkle, or he would’ve made a perfect Twilight character, slow motion strut and all.

Moments later he was at the counter and Peter tried to convey a quick telepathic message to Rocket —  _shut up, don’t talk, don’t speak, don’t breathe, don’t say a word, just don’t_  — before looking up from the register to meet Ronan’s (pretty) eyes. The guy looked like he was in desperate need of a pick me up.

Peter huffed out a breath. “Lemme guess,” he started, “something hot,” (Rocket snorted), “caffeinated and over-sweetened?”

“Why is he smiling at me like that?” came the hesitant reply.

Peter glanced over his shoulder to find Rocket smirking at Ronan in an oddly suggestive manner. Not flirty — just plain creepy. The sort of creepy that would keep Ronan awake at night, sleeping with his eyes open in fear of Rocket materializing from the shadows beneath his bed.

“He’s just really stupid,” Peter assured him. “I’m gonna suggest the caramel macchiato with double whipped cream — not because it’s the most expensive thing on our menu, _what_ , that’s preposterous — and might I add that it’s also the sweetest thing we have here — ”

“Sold,” Ronan interrupted. Peter did a mental victory dance, though this was to be suspected, as Ronan never really paid attention to how much money he was spending. He had enough dough in the bank to buy a small town, or an island, if he was in a more tropical mood.

Peter got to clicking at the register and it took him a moment to notice that Rocket was now standing immediately to his left, a nearly empty plastic cup raised to his mouth, making a very irritating slurping sound through the straw between his lips. Peter couldn’t quite deduce what the game plan was, here.

Ronan seemed to be good at this ignoring thing, pulling a credit card out of the wallet he’d just gotten out of his back pocket. He paid no mind to Rocket’s intense stare flickering between the two of them — and he seemed equally unfazed by the intensifying slurping as he handed Peter the card.

As the Hollywood cliché requires, their fingers brushed, and it wouldn’t even have been awkward if Rocket hadn’t slurped so aggressively that he almost swallowed the straw at that point. Small blessings, because Peter had lied on his resume when he claimed to know CPR.

But, above all, the little guy was a nuisance and Peter snapped ever so slightly. “Rocket, get your head out of your ass and make the damn coffee.”

And Rocket did as he was told — not before he winked at them, of course.

Ronan was mildly amused by the time Peter turned his attention back to him. “Sorry about that. I did mention his deficiency, did I not? Lack of brain?”

Ronan kept a remarkably straight face. “He’s just jealous of what we have.”

Peter fought to hide his amusement when Rocket tripped over his own feet in surprise.

 

Right, a quick backstory might be in order: with Rocket’s incessant nagging, Ronan thought it best to fight fire with fire and, how he put it — “ _Give the people what they want, Quill_.”

Rocket didn’t buy it, no matter how many overdone endearments the two used towards one another. So, naturally, Ronan saw it as a challenge and stepped his game up every time they were all in the same room. Peter often struggled to catch up. It’s not that he was ashamed or afraid; Ronan’s boldness simply surpassed his own, and never failed to amaze.

 

“God, please tell me you did the grocery shopping, Ronan,” Peter said suddenly, out of nowhere, putting on his best _old married couple_ voice. “I’m not going anywhere in this rain.”

“I was working,” Ronan shot back. “Try slipping out to buy milk when there’s cranky old guys in suits breathing down your neck.”

“Then no dinner today, I guess,” Peter sighed. (Very dramatically, mind you, he should have gotten an Oscar for his performance. Ronan certainly looked impressed at the display of domesticity, though he hid it well.)

“Shush, baby, I’ll order a pizza.”

Rocket was in a bit of a haze as he walked back to the counter with the finished order in hand. There was the slightest hint of disbelief in his voice as he tried to levelly ask, “You two live together now?”

Peter gave himself a mental high five, almost punched the air in glee. _He’s buying it._

“We didn’t invite him to the housewarming party last week?” Ronan turned to Peter, confused.

Peter quickly shook his head. “We did, we invited everyone.”

Rocket made a dying sound in the back of his throat and set the cup down onto the polished wood before he could spill it or do something equally stupid. “I thought you were joking about that,” he choked out, “ — the invitation, I mean.”

Ronan shrugged and picked up his coffee. “Your loss.”

“Groot said he’d bring some free booze back for you, didn’t he?” Peter lied on. “He never did?”

He quickly caught Ronan’s gaze and raised his eyebrows, subtly glancing over at Rocket, then back to Ronan. Whatever Peter was aiming for, Ronan got the idea and went on to fish his phone out of his pocket. Rocket, however, stared on blankly at the far wall. He looked like a small, helpless child (special emphasis on the small).

Ronan balanced his jacket and the coffee in one hand as he raised the phone to his ear with the other. He shot a quick falsely apologetic glance at Peter and turned to go. “I gotta get going, Quill, see you later.”

Peter nodded in acknowledgement and he and Rocket watched Ronan retreat back out the door, into the downpour.

“You can come over anytime, man,” Peter finally told him, patting the smaller guy on the head in a reassuring gesture that Rocket hated with every fiber of his being. “We got plenty of booze.”

 

The door to the shop clicked closed behind Ronan, drowned out by the irritating roaring of the rain, and he made a futile attempt at shielding himself with his jacket as the person on the other line finally picked up.

Ronan wasted no time in getting to the point. “Last week there was party at Quill’s place to celebrate us moving in together. Everyone came, there was a lot of booze and you forgot to bring some back home for Rocket. I’ll pay you if you want, just stick to those facts if he asks.”

Groot was very silent for a very long time. “I want free croissants for a week.”

“Done.”

It wasn’t really Ronan’s choice to make, with Peter being the one working in the Galaxy and all, but it was cold and wet and Ronan was in no mood to negotiate. He struggled to end the call, the screen of his phone practically dripping by this point, as he started the bike with his coffee still in one hand. It was a skill he’d mastered over the years — driving the motorcycle without spilling a drop. He could’ve joined a circus, starred in a one man act about modern day acrobatics.

He backed out of the meager parking lot and drove off to his own apartment, not Peter Quill’s, because they’d just made that all up as they went along.

 

/

 

On the second day of Gamora’s absence, three of Peter’s professors had called in sick and he ended up with a whole morning of freedom.

So, naturally, he’d made a quick call to Yondu to ask for a last minute shift change because he desperately needed the extra money. The crew was going road-tripping that summer and Peter was in no mood to back out due to tragic cash shortage.

Except he’d forgotten to ask who else was working that day and ended up getting paired up with Rocket _again_. Peter could have sworn Rocket worked every available hour — he was a permanent, irksome presence in the café.

“Mornin’, Quill — ” Rocket shouted the moment Peter walked through the doors. Peter made an attempt to turn around and waltz right back out, except apparently Ronan was right there behind him, attempting to come inside. Peter slammed into his chest, then backtracked, took a step back and looked up at Ronan’s amused half-smile. It could either mean a very good or very bad thing.

“I was looking for you, actually,” Ronan said right away (loud enough for Rocket to hear over the buzz of the coffee machine), “You were gone when I woke up.”

Peter wracked his mind for a quick, low maintenance lie. “Had to drop that file off at the Dean’s. I thought I told you about that.”

Ronan feigned innocent ignorance, and Peter flashed a complacent smile. They stayed like that, staring at one another like legitimately love-struck idiots until Rocket yelled across the room again. “Come over here, boys, don’t be shy!”

Peter grimaced internally but began to walk nonetheless.

He leaned closer to Ronan and muttered, no small amount of inward panic, “You took care of Groot, right?”

There was a nod. “You owe him a week’s supply of croissants, or something,” Ronan said.

Which was bad, _very bad_ , Peter noted silently, because Groot could consume more croissants on a daily basis than most of Paris combined.

The second they reached the register, Peter swiftly jumped over the countertop (he’d finally learned to do that without sending various objects clattering to the floor) and pulled his apron out from where it was folded on a shelf below the counter. It was a display to woo the ladies — and the occasional gentleman, Peter was open to just about anything. In this case, _Ronan_ , as far as a certain short individual was concerned.

Rocket was watching them both with his hands on his hips, looking as if he was going to reprimand them, lose his marbles and start hollering about how they’ve been playing him the entire time.

Instead, he let out a defeated sigh. “I honestly can’t believe Groot forgot to bring me back some booze.”

Ronan and Peter exchanged a look. If Rocket had actually bought that, they were on the right track to a marvelous victory over him in no time.

“Of course,” he went on, “You probably paid him off with pictures of kittens, so I just had to call Gamora to confirm a party had actually taken place.”

Peter squeaked.

“Yeah, and she said it like you said it — Groot left the bottles on the shelf in the hall and forgot to pick ‘em up after he tied his shoes. What a dumb human,” Rocket concluded with a shake of his head.

Peter’s head shot up to send a questioning look at Ronan, which Rocket thankfully missed, too busy dealing with some soft-spoken customer that’d just approached the bar. The new guy had choppy shoulder length hair and a severe case of five o’clock shadow; he looked like he was in desperate need of a triple espresso and Peter was willing to bet his left arm that Rocket would attempt to persuade the guy into buying something extremely caffeinated and expensive. It was business, pure and simple, Yondu would say, and Rocket would agree. They were nothing but a bunch of lowlife scammers.

Peter made use of the opportunity and motioned for Ronan to follow him to the end of the bar, out of earshot.

“You called Gamora?” Ronan snapped immediately, the moment they were far enough for no one to hear. His tone was accusing and Peter was taken aback, ever so slightly.

“I never talked to her. Not about this,” Peter shot back. “ _She’s not supposed to know_.”

(Gamora wasn’t supposed to know because she had a strict no-bullshit policy and lacked what most people called _a sense of humor_. She’d rat them out in seconds.)

“So, what is this?” Peter pressed on. “Rocket dials her up, she figures the whole charade out in, like, two seconds and straight out lies to him for us?”

“Why is she playing along, Quill?” Ronan demanded. He was growing jittery, the anxiety rolling off him in subtle waves. Not too noticeable, but Peter could tell. And while Ronan wasn’t really one for stress, his concern was valid: when Gamora had something on him, Nebula was soon to catch on. And that never boded well.

The reply was bound to be interesting, except Rocket skipped over to them, having successfully wheedled a whole bunch of cash out of the sad looking long haired guy, and Peter shut his mouth before he got any suggestions out.

“Right, so,” Rocket continued playfully, positively grinning, “we’ll make up for that lost booze on Friday, alright? You’ll take me to a club, open a tab and we’ll celebrate your love.”

Peter nodded mutely and excused himself to go sign in in the employee’s lounge.

Rocket took a moment and continued staring Ronan down (up?) for a while, his burning gaze scrutinizing every inch of Ronan’s face, as if it would magically crack some façade and give him answers.

A minute passed before either of them spoke again.

“There’s a 50% off on that macchiato you like tomorrow,” Rocket told him. “And Quill’s working the counter.”

It sounded as if there was a veiled threat beneath the seemingly polite offer. Rocket stepped back and turned away from Ronan, leaving the latter with the realization that the former wasn’t buying their lies after all. Rocket wanted more, he wanted rock solid proof, and he wanted it tomorrow.

Peter emerged just in time to see Ronan heading towards the exit. He locked eyes with him for a split second and was mildly alarmed to find that Ronan’s smirk promised a reckoning.

 

/

 

 **from:** _ronan_ [9:44 AM] play along

Peter stole a glance at his phone again, for the umpteenth time that minute. _Play along with what?_ He’d arrived at the café fifteen minutes late that morning, and he did not need to be stressed out any further.

He continued analyzing the short text and jumped in a fit of panic when the door chimed, announcing a customer’s arrival.

 _Still not Ronan._ A middle aged couple walked in, talking softly to each other as they moved towards the bar, and Peter instinctively stared them down — the paranoia was getting the best of him already. _Play along with what??_

He stood in place, frozen, and Rocket quickly stepped in to gently shove him away and take the people’s orders.

“Sorry ‘bout this guy,” he laughed as the woman watched Peter’s immobile form, “he’s a tad bit too sleepy to be working today.”

The woman smiled knowingly and made some very on-point comments about the draining nature of public colleges. Rocket nodded along, clicking the balance into the register. _Except Peter here didn’t have school yesterday, lady, and there’s something very different bugging him on this fine day._

 

“What’s the deal, Quill?” he demanded the moment the couple disappeared to some booth towards the back of the room, hand in hand.

As if on cue (the timing was impeccable, really) Ronan pushed open the door and made his way inside in a flurry of black leather and supermodel good looks. There was a lazy smirk on his face as he approached the counter and Peter wasn’t sure if it was the stress he’d been feeling all morning, but he suddenly felt himself blushing, hot and bright.

And, hell, it didn’t help that Ronan, leaning over the counter, smiled his bright killer smile right in Peter’s face with a grossly overdone, “Mornin’, sleeping beauty.”

Peter found himself at a loss for words, which was conveniently masked as an exceptionally attractive girl approached the counter and decided to order the most complicated coffee in existence. Rocket begrudgingly clicked up her total and quickly gave out the change before going off to mix all fifty something ingredients together. Meanwhile, the girl sent a suggestive sideways glance at Ronan and, _wow_ , that wasn’t subtle at all.

Rocket must’ve caught the brief exchange, snickering over the whirring of the blender. “Keep on dreaming, blondie,” he said, to himself more than her, “He’s taken, _apparently_.”

The girl’s eyes snapped to Rocket, icy blue met chocolate brown. She didn’t look thrilled at the implication. “You his lawyer? I think he can talk for himself.”

Peter came to the conclusion that this could go two ways — either the show goes on or the whole prank crashes and burns. The girl was pretty, Peter had to admit, and he wouldn’t even blame Ronan for ditching the joke to get her number.

Yet, for some miraculous reason Peter could not quite establish, Ronan wasn’t willing to let their hard work go to waste.

“Unfortunately,” he mock-sighed, turning to face the blonde, “completely head over heels in love and sadly unattainable. Better luck next time.”

Rocket almost dropped the cup he was finishing up. The girl just raised an unimpressed eyebrow, relentless and ostentatiously desperate. “Well, she can’t possibly be th _e one_ if she’s not at your side right now. I know I wouldn’t let a gem like you out of my sight.”

In a fit of desperation (he hoped Ronan wouldn’t hate him too much for this), Peter threw his arms up, motioning aggressively towards himself while Ronan shook his head in mock disappointment at the girl’s narrow-mindedness. _Get with the times, my gal_ , was the unsaid addition.

The girl, whose mouth practically dropped open, snatched her order from Rocket’s outstretched hand and all but sprinted out the front door. The poor soul must not have been accustomed to rejection.

Ronan turned back to face Rocket, who was staring at the two of them, arms crossed, frown in place, lost deep in thought.

“I’m still not buying it,” he stated finally. It was now or never —

Peter rolled his eyes and hopped over the countertop to get to the other side, before making a show of reaching his arm down and intertwining his fingers with Ronan’s. He raised their joined hands up and waved them in Rocket’s face, as if that was supposed to explain everything.

“Doesn’t mean shit,” Rocket insisted immediately. He stepped to the side and curled his hand around the handle of the coffee machine. “There, I’m holding the coffee machine. Does that mean we’re romantically involved? No.”

Peter didn’t do well under pressure. He was out of ideas and Rocket’s creepy beady eyes were burning a hole in his skull.

And it really didn’t help his heart palpitations when Ronan actually ducked his head down and pressed his lips to Peter’s. It probably lasted no more than three seconds and yet Peter was pretty certain he was now blushing an interesting, bright shade of crimson.

One look at Rocket’s slack jaw and saucer-wide eyes and it was all worth it — the potential consequences would be dealt with at another time.

This whole pretending thing was like second nature to Ronan, who seemed unmoved by the entire exchange. And Peter — Peter was having trouble breathing, just a little bit. Just a tiny little bit — oh god, _why weren’t his lungs working_  —

He was snapped out of his trance when Ronan untangled their fingers and wrapped an arm around Peter’s waist instead, pulling him uncomfortably close.

Ronan went on to stare Rocket down expectantly. “Get my boyfriend a frappuccino, he seems low on sugar today.”

Fuck Ronan and his shiny hair and his impeccable lying skills, this was bound to be one tough mess to unscramble later. Especially when Gamora came knocking, demanding answers upon piles of answers. And Peter wasn’t sure what he’d say, he didn’t know what to say _now_. He didn’t know what to think, especially about the odd feelings he was spontaneously feeling.

“Yeah, Rocket,” Peter echoed blankly after a moment of dumb staring, “get Ronan’s boyfriend a frappuccino.”

 

A beat passed.

Then another.

Rocket snapped his mouth shut and forced a frown onto his face. "Still not buying it, bitch."

Okay, by this point he had to be doing it on purpose, playing the stubborn fucker. It was so painfully obvious that there were real, authentic feelings between them, at least to the untrained eye.

"Seriously?" Peter groaned. "C'mon, we just kissed — "

And his oncoming rant was cut short when Ronan decided he was officially done taking Rocket's shit and pulled Peter against him with a hand at the back of his neck, the second kiss deeper than the first.

Peter was at a loss for words, for thoughts —  _he was just lost, man_ , because this was breaching the line between kissing and foreplay and it was probably going to be really hard to explain to whoever happened to be watching.

 

When Ronan finally stepped back, Peter was certain the temperature in the room had increased a couple degrees, maybe a couple hundred. His first thoughts were a scramble of inexplicably creative cursing, because, as much as he couldn't believe he was admitting it to himself, Ronan was a fucking excellent kisser. Wait, what. _What what what, Quill, no._

On the bright side, Rocket was nowhere in sight. The door to the tiny employee’s lounge was slightly ajar and Peter figured he'd disappeared to clean his brain with industrial bleach. Or to call Groot, who moonlighted as Rocket’s personal therapist.

Ronan broke the sudden awkward silence by clearing his throat. "Might’ve overdone it?”

"Nah," Peter forced out, and, _wow_ , it really was hot in the room, wasn't it? "Would've been a shame to pass up an opportunity like that.”

Ronan just shrugged. It was amazing how impassive he was about the whole thing. That, or he was impeccably good at hiding that he felt the same —  _nah_. Peter stopped that train of thought. He figured it best not project his own emotional panic onto anyone else.

Rocket didn’t seem to be about to resurface anytime soon, if the slightly muffled panicked phone call he was holding in the lounge was anything to go by.

Peter scrambled back over the counter — someone had to do actual work in the shop, after all. He immediately took to restacking cups to clear his mind of unwanted thoughts. And he really had to shed that lingering feeling Ronan’s touch left on him, _wow, what the fuck is happening, Quill_ , _snap out of it._

 

"Showmanship aside," Ronan said suddenly, bringing Peter's attention back to him,  "how was that?"

“What.” It was the most intelligent answer Peter could come up with at such short notice. Also, what kind of question was that?

If Ronan noticed Peter’s uncertainty, he paid it no mind and went on. "Sure, we managed to fool the guy this time, but did you like it? I need some honest feedback, constructive criticism, et cetera — "

Peter couldn’t make a single coherent sound, no matter how hard he tried to choke out actual words. He was just overwhelmed with an unexplainable desire to pull Ronan in and kiss him again.

He was probably just coming down with a fever. Like, a very intense, life threatening fever that brought about irrational thoughts and hallucinations.

"No offense, Quill, but you're turning the color of that old red jacket of yours and any human being with two good eyes can tell that was your first time kissing another guy," Ronan was still talking, apparently, "I just gotta make sure it's not gonna go down in history as a bad memory."

 

/

 

Peter awoke the next morning ( _afternoon_? he wasn’t sure; he’d had evening classes the previous night) to the incredibly pleasant sound of someone banging on his front door.

He fell out of bed and staggered over to the entrance, uncharacteristically forgetting to tame his hair before pulling the door wide open to reveal an impatiently waiting Gamora. Oh, great, _now_ she came back.

“I heard we’re going clubbing.” She pushed past Peter and went straight for his kitchen — to steal his Pop Tarts, no doubt.

“Says who?”

“Says Rocket,” Gamora said, pushing herself up on her toes to reach the top cupboard — no matter how hard Peter tried to protect the Pop Tarts, there was no hiding them from a hungry Gamora. “He says you’re opening a tab. Plus, you owe me for covering your ass when he called.”

Right, _that._

“How’d the interview go?” Peter asked offhandedly, because talking about Gamora’s life was so much safer than talking about the topic he’d rather leave alone.

But Gamora wasn’t going to let herself get distracted so easily. “Does Ronan know you like him?”

Peter choked on the very air he was breathing. “Does he _what_?” he asked incredulously.

“Cut the crap, Peter,” Gamora went on, in that cute, endearing way of hers, as she ripped open the silver foil to reveal that she’d taken the last blueberry Pop Tarts, “I wouldn’t have covered for your stupid prank if I saw no underlying reason.”

Peter waved his arms helplessly. “The underlying reason was to prank Rocket, Gamora! I don’t know what you’re trying to say to me right now, but it’s a bit too much -– you come into _my_ house, take _my_ food, make these unfounded accusations — ”

“I heard he kissed you yesterday,” she cut Peter’s rant short.

In response to which he sputtered.

“I’ll take that as a _yes, I want him to do it again_ ,” Gamora concluded.

“Gamora, please feel free to take my silent seething as a sign to leave,” Peter groaned.

She rolled her eyes and turned away from him to reach upwards toward the cupboard again. She grabbed the entire box of Pop Tarts and stashed them in her tote bag, despite Peter’s weak attempts to stop her from doing so.

“You don’t get these back until you accept the fact that you have a crush.”

“I don’t have a crush,” Peter complained (whined). “You’ll eat them all, anyway. There won’t be anything to return.”

“True,” Gamora admitted, “but I’ll buy you some more when you get yourself out of this mess. You have four hours, apparently, before you’re picking Rocket up, so I suggest you plan this night out in great detail.”

Peter stole a look at the digital clock on the microwave display. Sure enough, it was half past four and _how the hell had he even managed to sleep for so long?_ Late night study sessions were probably hazardous to his health, but life was life and he had to juggle work and school if he wanted to achieve anything on his own.

Gamora was headed for the door already, having accomplished her sole mission of Grand Theft Pop Tart.

“Ronan’s a picky guy, Peter,” she called over her shoulder. “He wouldn’t kiss just anyone.”

 _Thanks, Gamora._ _Thanks for the help. Thanks for those super reassuring words that did absolutely nothing to calm my nerves and now I’m just ten thousand times more stressed out_  —

The door slammed shut.

Thankfully, Peter’s jumbled thoughts shut up along with it.

 

A half hour or so later, when he’d taken a hot shower and made himself a real, quality breakfast with whichever leftovers he’d had stashed in his fridge, Peter sat down to eat on the creaky sofa and allowed himself to think.

And when his deliberations were fruitless, he allowed himself to let out a helpless whine.

Until he remembered a tip he’d read someplace or another —  _Cosmopolitan_ , most likely — to face the facts. The first step to confronting your crush was admitting to yourself that you had one.

Peter lifted his coffee to his lips and stared blankly at the wall across from him.

 _Do you like Ronan?_  Sure.

He rolled his eyes at himself. Even now, he beat around the bush.

 _Do you like like Ronan?_  Peter felt like he was a thirteen year old girl playing truth or dare at a slumber party. Except, instead, he was practically talking to himself, alone on the living room couch.

He never took his eyes off the far wall while he answered his own personal set of game show questions, the sickening feeling of dread just growing and growing in his chest.

He was fairly certain he’d frozen in that position, until he forced himself to set his mug down with shaking hands and buried his face in a pillow he’d grabbed from the side, the unwanted sinking feeling in his gut, well — sinking in. He barely suppressed the uncivilized urge to scream into the cushion.

 _Jeez, okay_ , he was kind of, maybe, _just maybe_ falling for Ronan.

And he deserved not one, _but five_ whole boxes of Pop Tarts for that internal confession, which he planned on making very clear the next time he spoke to Gamora.

As for Ronan, he could just avoid him all night, if all else failed. There was no way Peter would intentionally make an absolute fool of himself in front of the guy, proving his inability to carry out a simple joke without his malfunctioning brain turning into something else entirely.

 

/

 

If anyone ever asked Ronan what the ideal solution to a bad week at work was, he’d point them to the nearest bar.

Which was precisely the reason he was well into his fourth (fifth?) drink, practically swaying on his feet, heavily relying on the bar counter for support. To top it all off, the flashing lights weren’t helping with his growing headache.

One could always count on Rocket to pick the trashiest, loudest club in the entire goddamn state. Although, Ronan’s bet was on Rocket picking this particular location for its famed overpriced shots — the guy would do anything to spend as much of Quill’s money as possible, purely for the fun of watching his eyes widen upon seeing the bill.

Ronan wasn’t cutting back on the booze either, tossing back a shot or two between every drink he ordered.

So, naturally, it took him a good few moments to realize Peter had materialized at his side in that obnoxious red jacket of his, hair tousled from all the crazy dancing he’d been doing. Ronan, however, felt perfectly content with staying on the sidelines and drinking himself sick. Which didn’t sound all too pleasant, now that he really came to think about it.

“Come on, drop the drink and come join us,” Peter was saying over the irritating sound of some dubstep remix blaring from the speakers. He motioned over the crowd, his outstretched fingers vaguely landing on Gamora and the rest of their crew. Shockingly enough, even that Drax guy had come along this time, despite his monstrous grudge against Ronan. Peter never actually bothered asking what that was all about, it seemed too personal.

“I’d fall over,” Ronan protested. “I’m just fine watching you.”

If Peter wasn’t drunk into oblivion he might have caught that Ronan had singled him out right then. But, sadly, he did not and he settled for an making an exaggerated pouty face.

“Really, Quill, I’m good here.” Ronan assured him, then twisted around to face the girl behind the bar and motioned for a refill of whatever he’d been drinking. She eyed him warily, because it really was painfully obvious that he was drunk out of his right mind, before accepting his empty glass anyway.

During that brief moment, Ronan missed the exchange between Peter and Gamora, who’d stopped in a dead halt amongst the crowd and was pointedly glaring at him, which Peter loudly ignored. Though it was hard to pull his eyes away, the cold lights accentuating her nonverbal threat, making her appear that much more formidable.

If anything, Gamora’s glare reminded Peter of how desperately he’d wanted to avoid Ronan tonight. Whereas, instead, he’d ended up approaching him directly and attempting to coax him onto the dance floor. _Bad move, Quill, cut down on the tequila._

“Oki doke,” Peter said finally, subconsciously watching Ronan’s lips as he took a sip of his new drink, “I’m gonna head back out there — have fun doing whatever it is you’re doing.”

And with that very lame finish, he very inconspicuously ducked behind a group of girls and disappeared from Ronan’s line of sight.

 

Ronan was completely unaware of how much he’d actually drank up to that point. Like, if he saw the bill, even he, with his overflowing bank account, would feel a slight twinge of guilt.

But guilt usually came later, preceded by the bitter taste of whatever he was drinking now burning its way down his throat. He could already feel the monster hangover waiting to kick in bright and early the next morning, and yet he drained the glass anyway.

In all honesty, the last thing Ronan remembered happening that night was the sight of Gamora dragging Quill off in the general direction of the bathrooms.

The rest was a bit of a blur, really.

 

/

 

Ronan woke up the next morning with the unfamiliar weight of someone’s arm draped over his chest.

The second thing he realized — the pounding in his head was bound to give him a concussion if he didn’t take at least 5 aspirins at that very moment. Except he was incapable of opening his lead eyelids, much less sliding out of bed and getting the pills he needed. Then, additionally, there was that painful urge to throw up everything he’d drank the night before. _Ah, there it was_ , the regret kicking in. It always kicked in when the nausea started up — it was a scientific fact, _it just was._

There was a slight shift in the mattress and Ronan immediately jolted wide awake, because that wasn’t his alcohol-induced imagination — there was actually someone in his bed. Seconds later, he came to the conclusion that, _fuck_ , this wasn’t his bed. This wasn’t his apartment, those weren’t his bed covers and that red jacket draped over the handle of the bedside table was most certainly not his.

For a split second, Ronan considered the idea that maybe getting another drink was a better option than curing his current headache.

He really had nothing to lose by looking over to the side, and yet he still wished he hadn’t when he found himself face to face with an apparently sleeping Peter Quill snoring into his pillow.

That definitely did a number to Ronan’s nausea. He carefully peeled Peter’s hand off his chest before untangling himself from the covers, in an attempt to make a run for the bathroom unnoticed. If all went well, maybe he’d succeed in slipping out of the apartment altogether before the other guy woke up. Pretend nothing happened, because this wasn’t exactly how he’d wanted it to go down.

Except, obviously, all did not go well, and the second Ronan’s feet touched the cold ground, he heard the unmistakable mutter of, “ _Holy shit_ ,” from behind him. He froze and stayed still for the briefest of moments, internally hoping that Peter would just fall back asleep or solve this dilemma in some equally oversimplified manner.

Unfortunately, the previous remark was followed by, “ _Fuck_ ,” — a statement that Ronan had to admit he connected with on a spiritual level.

He dared a peek over his shoulder. “You don’t suppose you can explain what I’m doing here?” he tried after a moment.

Quill was staring straight ahead, face white, clearly in a state of disarray. That disqualified the option where Ronan got the answers he needed the easy way.

“Okay then,” he went on, “if you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna go throw up in your bathroom now.”

 

Ronan wasn’t exactly certain of how much time had passed while he’d been resting his head against the cold tile wall of the bathroom, but he hoped it was enough to snap Quill out of his initial shock.

By the time he’d gotten back to the room, thankfully, Peter wasn’t staring blankly into space anymore. Except now he wasn’t in the bedroom at all.

Ronan picked his shirt up from where it was lying discarded on the floor ( _honestly, Ronan didn’t even want to imagine the things that must have happened last night)_ and pulled it over his head before venturing into the living room — which he must have passed through at some point in the past ten or so hours, not that he had any recollection of the event.

He found Peter in the kitchenette, yet again staring blankly into space. Ok, so there was no improvement after all. This was probably the only chance Ronan had at a swift escape. He’d sort of fucked up, _grandly_. They both did. It probably screwed with any chance either of them had at initiating a serious conversation about, well, feelings. The big plan. The daunting future.

“You know what, I think I’m gonna head home,” he tried. There was no response and he almost turned around to head back into the bedroom to actually get the rest of his stuff when Peter looked over at him. It was like watching a porcelain doll come to life, with Peter’s slow, haunted movements.

“You’re not driving in that state,” Peter muttered. “Coffee?”

“I’m fine,” Ronan assured him. But the universe was a bitch and picked that very moment to have Peter catch Ronan swaying dangerously on his feet.

“Fine, my ass,” Peter scoffed. “Sit down on the sofa and I’ll make the coffee — I think I got some aspirin somewhere in here, too — ” he trailed off, rummaging through a few drawers, “ — eh, I’ll find it eventually.”

 

It didn’t come as a shock, that when Peter’s outdated coffee machine finally finished spewing out the much needed caffeine, Ronan had dropped like a stone, fast asleep on the sofa, one hand curled around the armrest as if it were a pillow.

Peter probably spent a good ten minutes staring at him, thinking about all the possible worse case scenarios, before realizing it was distressingly cold in the apartment, and stumbling off in search of a spare blanket.

He had to admit, when he draped an old, worn patchwork quilt over the couch, that Ronan looked adorable when he was asleep.

 _Yeah, yeah_ , he could admit that to himself _now_  — he’d gotten past his pathetic denial phase; he was fully aware of the hopeless state of his crush at this point. Except, you know, he may or may not have slept with the guy just last night, which complicated things a bit.

Which was when the door to the apartment slammed open. Two things dawned on Peter at that very moment. _One_ , he’d forgotten to lock the door when he’d come home at night (he could think of at least six other things that could have been more preoccupying at the time — at least six of which included Ronan’s mouth on his — ), and _two_ , there was only one person who’d barge in like that, uninvited.

Fun fact: Gamora had a very, very high alcohol tolerance and, on top of that, impeccable self-control. It was a recipe for success — as far as Peter knew, she’d never had a proper hangover in her entire life.

She waltzed into the living room before Peter could stop her from taking another step. Her gaze settled on Ronan, bundled up on the couch like a kid who fell asleep in front of the TV.

“You know,” she said to Peter, not even bothering to keep her voice down, “I thought I was going nuts when I saw his car downstairs, but I’m glad to see I’m quite sane.”

Peter did a double take. “His car? He drove here? _And we’re alive_?”

Gamora tilted her head to the side. “How drunk was he?”

Peter considered that for a moment. “Like Rocket after senior prom.”

There was a grimace on Gamora’s face for a split second before it reverted back to her usual cold, calculating mask. _She’d make a great assassin_ , Peter mused, _genius and emotionless_.

“So, what happened here?” she continued.

If looks could kill, Peter would have killed her. Violently, probably. “What kind of question is that?” he snapped.

“I mean, he’s on the couch,” Gamora clarified, “so, unless you had sex on the couch, which would’ve been a challenge since your couch is the size of a large beanbag, I’m guessing nothing happened between you two?”

Peter considered lying his way out.

But Gamora was staring him down with her characteristic detached glare, and it worried him, that that was her way of showing how much she cared about her friends — because she was a very warm person, despite appearances.

“We, uh — ” Peter was stuttering, of course, so he opted for telling her the truth, which was, in fact, the safer way to play this, “ — woke up in my bed? And then he puked his insides out and passed out on my couch.”

“Congrats on the sex,” she deadpanned. “Have you talked about it yet? _Not the sex_ ,” she paused. “I mean the general state of things, y’know — ”

Peter frowned and motioned in the direction of Ronan’s restless form on the couch — there hadn’t really been an opportunity to hold a lengthy discussion, with the guy drooling into the cushions.

Gamora wasn’t taking no for an answer, though, and she picked up the coffee Peter had prepared for Ronan and popped it in the microwave for a few seconds. After which, she blatantly ignored Peter’s protests and brought the coffee over to the small table in the center of the living room and gently set it down.

And then, of course, she grabbed a cushion from the far edge of the couch and whacked Ronan over the head with it. Forcefully, Peter had to admit, not the playful way cinematic pillow fights ensued.

Ronan’s eyes snapped open and he immediately squeezed them shut again, unaccustomed to the bright light now seeping in through the pale curtains; and then he was blinking blearily and Peter held back an elongated _aww_ , because he valued his life and Gamora would have ended him for that, probably.

When he fully regained consciousness, Ronan’s face settled into a frown, undoubtedly wondering when Gamora had become a part of this equation.

“Congrats on the sex,” she told him, because apparently that was a thing she did.

Peter wasn’t going to ask about it, but his brain was working against him this morning, and he ended up looking at her very seriously, “Do you always say that?”

Ronan answered for her, pushing himself up on shaky arms. “She baked Nebula a cake when we started dating, with that on it, so, yeah, it’s a thing she does — thanks,” he added, when she held out the coffee she’d heated up for him.

Gamora got up from her crouch and took a seat on the rickety table. “No one ever gets anywhere by beating around the bush. Peter, bring him some aspirin before he passes out again.”

Peter followed her command without a single word of complaint. Gamora was used to getting what she wanted, it was her supervillain backstory.

Ronan downed the pills without a second of hesitation, paying no mind to the burn of the steaming coffee as it scorched its way down his throat.

Gamora considered her next words carefully. She was playing matchmaker and Peter was dreading every minute of it. Her version of the game was very straightforward and disturbingly successful, with the heavy emphasis on _straightforward._

“You remember anything from last night?” she asked Ronan, quietly, as if she were talking to an amnesiac patient.

“Honestly,” he muttered, “nothing. Big blank.”

Peter bit back the disappointment. And then he thankfully remembered to shut up before his uncooperative mouth offered to remind Ronan just how much he’d missed. Peter needed to invest in a speech filter, _really_.

“But, clearly, you’re getting the big picture,” Gamora pressed on.

Ronan shrugged, taking a sip of his coffee before answering. “It’s pretty self-explanatory, yeah.”

Peter noted that Ronan was doing an exceptional job of avoiding his gaze. Gamora noticed, too, which was a bad sign — it could only go downhill from there.

“And you do realize Peter’s into you?”

Okay, and then Ronan’s head snapped toward Peter so quickly that Gamora was momentarily worried he’d snapped his spine.

Ronan stared at him blankly and Peter decided against averting his eyes, choosing to be a man about it and stare back with extra defiance. Or at least he hoped it looked like defiance and not straight out panic.

Though it probably came off as panic.

Gamora clapped her hands together and shot to her feet. “Alright, boys, my job here is done. You have fun now.”

Neither Peter nor Ronan paid much attention to her departing form as she stalked over to the hall and pulled her coat back on, before swinging the door closed behind her with as much dramatic flair as she could muster.

“Is that right?” Ronan finally asked.

Peter let himself blow out a very long, very exasperated gust of air.

 

/

 

“You know, Quill,” Rocket mused aloud, polishing one of the mugs he’d just washed, “You and future Mr. Quill haven’t done anything excessive to keep me believing your act this past week.”

It was past ten pm and they were both seated on the floor behind the counter, working overtime, because Yondu paid _very close_ attention to their constant tardiness, in spite of appearances.

Rocket had gotten stuck with dish duty while Peter took care of accounting. Which, looking back, was not, in fact, the lesser of two evils, because there was way more math involved than he’d ever bargained for.

“Gotta keep you on edge,” Peter muttered back. “ — keep you guessing.”

There were various spreadsheets strewn out haphazardly on the tile in front of him, but, of course, Peter was staring at his phone instead. He’d been texting all evening and, frankly, Rocket was growing irritated. On top of all that, all the croissants were mysteriously missing and Yondu was bound to fire someone for that.

“You’re just out of ideas, aren’t you?” he pressed on, hoping that he’d wheedle some information out of Quill while his guard was down.

Peter hummed idly.

Rocket observed him for a moment. Peter was an open book most days, naïve and spectacularly easy to read, and yet Rocket was having the hardest time figuring out anything at all at the moment.

“You’re just buying time?”

Peter nodded absentmindedly. He barely heard what Rocket was saying, in all honesty, but Rocket wasn’t willing to give up just yet.

“Buying time to work out your next move?”

Peter just kept nodding disinterestedly.

“Or is this prank finally over?”

Peter stilled and looked up from the screen for the first time in what seemed like hours. He shot a look at Rocket, considering the option.

Then, he settled for a dumb smile that Rocket couldn’t quite interpret.

“Yeah,” Peter said, “prank’s over.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prank's over bc it's true love now BOOM i'm out


	2. The Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok i never meant to continue this when i wrote it back in '14, and yet here we are
> 
> ft. bonus round #2: spot the other marvel cameo

Somehow, the second part was a lot harder than the first.

Establishing a fake affair, with all the jazz that came with it, was surprisingly easy in comparison to managing the real thing. Harder still was transitioning from Look Everyone We’re Totally Dating to figuring out where the boundaries were in a real relationship. Not that they couldn’t handle it, because they could, but limits had to be tested and sacrifices had to be made.

And most distressing of all was, as usual, Rocket, who lived to hold grudges.

 

/

 

“Where’s Quill?”

Rocket looked up from behind the counter to see Ronan walking over.

“Switched shifts last minute. Don’t know why, didn’t care, still don’t care, needed extra cash,” he answered, forcing some degree of condescension into his tone. “Aw, you poor thing, he didn’t give you a heads up.”

Because despite everything, Rocket harbored hectoliters of bad blood towards them both for the elaborate prank. On second thought, he still had no idea whether it’d been a prank or not, and he most certainly couldn’t explain why Peter still spent so much time at Ronan’s, and definitely couldn’t fathom why Groot kept insisting he saw them kissing before class just last week. Last he checked, practical jokes didn’t work like that: the charade didn’t go on behind closed doors; and unless they knew someone was watching, someone who would relay the good news to Rocket, it made no sense at all.

Ronan sighed; made an effort to keep his temper in check and not strangle Rocket for simply being Rocket.

“And where’s your bodyguard?”

“Groot or Drax?”

Ronan raised an eyebrow.

Rocket shrugged. “Guessin’ you mean Groot, but it’s all the same. He’s out with Drax — teaching, tutoring, assisting — whatever. Drax is failing everything. Also, since you’ve already gone through the trouble of coming over here, why don’t you order something?”

And that was Rocket’s blatant attempt at wrangling Ronan out of his money.

Ronan complied, because he was bored, and Rocket looked bored. Complicating his life ever so slightly would be a win-win for both teams.

“Fine. Get me a frappuccino with double espresso shots, a medium cinnamon mocha and individually wrap one of each of today’s muffin specials to go.”

Rocket growled, a full on feral, tooth-baring warning. He knew Ronan knew how to get on anyone’s nerves, knew just what to order to get Rocket and his poorly coordinated hands to end up dusted in spices, and he’d still ended up treating himself to a one way ticket down the road to hell. And he couldn’t forget the fucking muffins, of course. Individually wrapped.

Rocket got to work behind the counter, however begrudgingly.

“ — what is that sound?” Ronan asked after a moment, and Rocket snorted. His frown was genuinely perplexed and it made Rocket’s day the slightest bit better.

“See that booth?” he explained, motioning to the far back of the room with the spoon he was holding. “Do you see those boys? That one brought a live bird in here. A live bird. How am I supposed to react to that?”

Ronan really didn’t know. “No pets policy?”

Rocket spilled cinnamon all over himself and swore. Fuck fuck fuck. Then, “Yeah, technically.”

He shook himself off, tried to look almost presentable. Almost, because Rocket always looked like a mess, to some degree. For example, there’d been an inexplicable twig stuck in his hair for a few hours the previous day, and no one could figure out where it came from, and why Rocket wasn’t doing anything about it. They’d chalked it up to questionable fashion statements.

“ — I actually found the guidelines sheet thing in the lounge, except the whole pets rule was damn specific and mentioned cats, dogs, all that shit, but not — birds. So, legally, no, I can’t kick them out for bringing that thing in here.”

Ronan was very amused. It was so unlike Rocket to follow rules, of any importance. Which could only mean that Yondu had given him one strike, then another, and Rocket was well on his way to getting sacked if he didn’t stay perfectly in line.

The next minute or so passed in silence, then Rocket slid two cups across the counter, and reached over to collect all the beautifully packed muffins he’d worked so hard on preparing. It really did seem like he’d put in the effort. Ronan almost visited the tip jar, right then, except it was _Rocket_ , so he stilled his wandering wallet.

“Here’s your blueberry, your chocolate, your cinnamon apple, your —  _ex-girlfriend_  — ”

Ronan looked up at Rocket in confusion — he didn’t remembering ordering that one in particular — then followed the little guy’s gaze over to the door, where, sure enough, Nebula had entered the café.

He scoffed and turned his attention back to his wallet, taking out the due payment, sans tip. Rocket hesitantly accepted it.

“You look like you’ve crapped your pants,” Ronan commented idly. There was something captivating in Rocket shaking like a small woodland animal.

“She’s scary,” Rocket shot back, “ — and she’s — coming over here, _shit_ , lord save us.”

Ronan stuck his wallet back in his pocket and it took him a beat to realize he had no way of carrying all the muffins back to his car. Attempting the greatest balance trick of the century would’ve been a tad excessive.

“Well, this is a dining establishment,” he said, motioning over for Rocket to hand him a paper bag for his purchases, “and you work the counter, where people tend to order the things they want to dine on. So, it’s only normal that one would come over — ”

Ronan was interrupted when Nebula approached the bar, not-so-subtly elbowing him to push him aside. She didn’t seem very apologetic about it. She never did seem very apologetic about anything.

“Caramel macchiato,” she told Rocket.

Ronan frowned at nothing in particular. Or maybe it was something, and Rocket simply had no idea what it was. He wouldn’t ask, because it must have had something to do with _her_ , and he valued his life.

With his muffins safely in the bag, and the coffees in the cardboard holder, Ronan nodded at Rocket in lieu of goodbye. He was trying to make a run for it; wanted to leave Rocket all alone, helpless and defenseless.

“Hold up,” Rocket snapped over his shoulder, because he had that barista authority, halting Ronan’s escape. “We’re not done talking about the term papers.”

The resulting death glare of a response was blood-chilling, sure, but Ronan stuck around, waiting for Nebula to leave for him and Rocket to continue discussing those _non-existent_ term papers. The things he did for friendship, for people who weren’t even really his friends, were commendable, and then some.

Nebula, on her part, waited patiently, soundlessly, and the tension was so stifling that Rocket almost regretted demanding Ronan stick around. Almost. Though it was a small miracle that neither she nor Ronan actually took to hurling things at each other in the span of those few minutes, considering how epically bad the breakup had been. People sometimes whispered of a smashed window in Ronan’s apartment, but no one had ever asked; thus it remained just another urban legend, passed on through the crowds.

Once she got her coffee (Rocket set it down quickly enough to avoid touching her as she picked it up, he didn’t trust the devil), swiped her card, and slipped her wallet into her bag, Ronan had worked up an odd mixture of courage and spite, leveling her with a mirthless smile.

“Nice seeing you,” he offered.

She said nothing, plainly ignored the gesture of goodwill; turned and left, and Rocket let out a long wheeze of a breath. He slumped across the counter in a truly pitiful fashion, resting his cheek against the cool surface.

“I would take detention with Nova over that any day,” he concluded, and Ronan shot him a dubious glance as he set his coffees back down on the counter.

“She ordered coffee. She didn’t steal your soul.”

Rocket peeled himself upright. “Very comforting. How did you date her? And for so long? How are you still alive?”

“She isn’t that bad,” Ronan said shortly, and there was a trace of a wistful sort of melancholy in his voice, and fuck, it was weird. Very odd. Ronan and feelings, would not recommend. Volatile combination.

“Why’d you break up, then?”

“I said, she isn’t _that_ bad. Meaning, there is some percentage of bad in the equation. We all have faults, right? Regardless — what the fuck am I doing talking to you about this? It was a mutual decision, let’s leave it at that.”

Rocket, unperturbed, decided to take one for the team and ask the heavy hitting question. “The thing about the window. Is that true?”

The door chimed as the bird-owning cult left the establishment. Rocket just hoped the damned raven didn’t pick up on the security feeds, or it’d be a matter of time before Yondu called him in for an unsavory talk.

Ronan just took a sip of one of his coffees. “No comment.”

And Rocket shrugged, false nonchalance. “Then I’ll ask Quill. He would know.”

The implication was not lost on the receiving party. Though it was about as threatening as Groot on a good day.

“Think about it,” Ronan said slowly. “Theoretically, if we broke it off last year, and a window had indeed gotten shattered in the process, don’t you think I’d have had it replaced since then?”

Another sip of the coffee (it was good, Rocket had made an effort not to poison it), and then he set it down and sighed. A weight lifted off his chest and the whole thing was almost visible to the naked eye.

“Besides, we don’t live together. That whole — housewarming party thing. That, actually, was a lie. Our deepest apologies.”

Rocket almost backflipped from sheer force of fury alone.

Some sputtering, and then: “Can you please, pretty fucking please, tell me the whole truth? You can’t actually be seeing Quill. He told me the prank was over, which means it was a prank, _so_. But now you’re being all vague, and I’m getting contradicting reports from my spies in the field, and this is all too much for my small being to handle. I can’t sleep at night. I try to imagine the logistics of the arrangement, and I can’t. What’s up with that? What the hell is really going on?”

Ronan, halfway through the blueberry muffin, shrugged.

“Are you even into guys?” Rocket steamrolled on. “Because Quill, that raging bisexual, is painfully obvious about it. And you — damn, I never thought you had a soul, let alone a sex drive. Which would’ve been a waste. You’re quite the — ” Rocket mused, giving Ronan a Very evident once over, “ — specimen.”

“Please don’t hit on me.”

“I am in a relationship.”

“Don’t make it any less creepy.”

With that, Ronan figured enough was enough, and he collected what was left of his order, his dignity, and turned to go.

Rocket couldn’t help but give him some life advice for the road.

“If you break his heart, I’ll break your neck.”

“You can’t reach my neck.”

 

/

 

Around noon, Peter opened his front door to find Ronan standing patiently on the doormat, suspicious looking plastic bags in hand.

Now, it’d have been a welcome distraction from his schoolwork, sweet and pleasant, but looming overhead was the very realistic possibility that the distraction would prove just a little _too_ pleasant, and he’d get nothing done.

“Won’t you come in, my good sir,” he said anyway.

Ronan obliged, stepping inside, pressing a chaste greeting kiss to Peter’s temple as he brushed past him.

And then, he got straight to the point.

“You’re starving.”

Peter blinked. “I am?”

Ronan rearranged his grip on the bags he was carrying, and went straight for the kitchen.

“For one, you’ve been cooped up here since last night, because no one’s seen you out and about yesterday, and all day today. You haven’t called, you haven’t texted, and Groot almost called the cops to file a missing person’s report.”

Peter trailed after him, stopping on the opposite side of the counter. He sort of maybe hoped it would conceal his study couture ensemble: old, faded sweatpants and a t-shirt of questionable origin. Possibly Ronan’s.

Ronan didn’t pay any mind. He was solely focused on unpacking an impressive supply of groceries — ranging from milk to some longish vegetable Peter didn’t even recognize.

Then belated realization hit Peter like a brick to the head. “ _Fuck_. You probably went looking for me, but I’m an ass and I forgot to tell you I opted out of that shift last minute. Sorry.”

“Your little height-impaired friend was kind enough to relay the message. Which reminds me — ” He reached over for a paper bag that’d been crammed inside one of the plastic ones. “ — One mocha for you. Might have to reheat it. Might also have to check for cyanide poisoning because Rocket made it with me in mind. Same goes for the muffins.”

“You are a very nice guy,” Peter concluded, which was one of the oddest and least accurate things anyone had ever said about Ronan.

So, Ronan outright snorted at that, and opened the fridge with his free hand to start unpacking.

“See?” He slid the milk into the side door compartment and gestured pointedly at the empty expanse of the fridge interior. “You have one —  _expired_ yogurt cup. You are, in fact, starving.”

Peter walked around the counter and towards the yet-unpacked bags. He was curious. Perhaps there was a sale on Twinkies and Ronan had taken advantage. There was never a bad time for Twinkies.

“I had an entire cream cheese bagel this morning. Scientifically speaking, I would not have starved.”

Ronan, in two long strides, crossed the kitchenette and grabbed at Peter’s hands, preventing him from rummaging around any further.

“You go back to your books, and I’ll make you something to eat. For now, grab your coffee and muffin: midday snack.”

Peter, his hands still encompassed within Ronan’s, frowned. Then, the frown was joined by a raised eyebrow. And came the doubtful laugh.

“You can’t cook.”

“Have you ever seen me cook?”

“No.”

“Then how do you know I can’t?”

There was no use arguing with law students, in the end.

Peter snatched his hands back and raised them up in mock surrender. “Alright, chief. Take it away.”

Ronan flashed a self-assured smirk, because he was the shit and he knew it well.

Peter picked up the cold coffee and bag of muffins, far too lazy to click buttons on the microwave. Concerned but intrigued, he turned to go, disappearing back into his bedroom.

There were loose-leaf handouts all over his meager desk, almost twice as much hastily taped to the walls for quick reference. The bed would’ve looked inviting, if only the thick, utterly despised textbooks weren’t piled up on either end.

Peter slumped into his spinny chair and dreaded going back to his notes. There were too many of them _and_ he could barely decipher his own handwriting, which was giving him a headache.

Barely a minute passed before Ronan called out from the kitchen. Peter was engulfed in a split-second wave of terror, because what were the odds that Ronan had already burned down half the apartment — and so Peter would lose the deposit. And he’d be homeless. _Lord_ , Ronan couldn’t have picked a worse time to render Peter homeless.

Instead: “You got any sweatpants I can borrow?”

Not exactly what he’d been expecting to hear. He exhaled.

“Are you not wearing pants?” Peter hollered back.

“Have you ever tried cooking in dress pants? Existing in dress pants? Please find me something.”

While the concept of pretending to open and close a few shelves, then telling Ronan, _nothing, sorry_ , was pretty tempting; just to see the guy prancing around the apartment half naked, Peter concluded he couldn’t afford the distraction. Not at the moment, at least.

He dug out a pair from the bottom of his closet, which just so coincidentally happened to be Ronan’s, and hand delivered them to the kitchen.

He supposed there was something to be said for karma. He’d done a good thing, given a pantsless guy some pants, and good fortune smiled upon him as Ronan unabashedly changed in the middle of the kitchen.

In the end, it was an atypical look: the loose pajama bottoms and navy dress shirt, with the sleeves messily rolled up, yet Ronan made it work. It was downright creepy and inhumanly improbable for him to make everything _work_.

Then he pulled Peter’s ratty _Kiss The Chef_ apron on over his head, and who was Peter to argue with that logo. He did just that, and Ronan lingered for a moment, before swatting Peter in the ass with a dishtowel and kicking him out back to his room.

 

It was two hours, maybe two and a half later, when the smell of whatever the chef was cooking up penetrated every door in the apartment, and every cell in Peter’s body. His mouth watered at the very thought of food and, yeah, now he could shamelessly admit that he was indeed starving.

He stood from his chair in a bit of a daze, because _Kant’s second formulation holds that the rational being, as by its nature an end and thus as an end in itself, must serve in every maxim as the condition restricting all merely relative and arbitrary ends —_  and then he snapped his textbook shut.

Modern philosophy and discussions of morality could wait; his hunger could not. A moment later and Peter would find his stomach shriveling up and dying on him due to sheer neglect.

There was a moment of hesitation when his vision blackened and shimmered in the corners of his eyes, but that was perfectly normal for someone with his condition: overworked, under-rested, heavily caffeinated, and running on gummy bear vitamins. He ignored the moment of weakness and charged towards the kitchen. It was the only way to actually reach the food, hence: sacrifices had to be made.

It came as a bit of a surprise that the moment he swung his door open he nearly body slammed straight into Ronan and the full plate he was carrying. Peter glanced down at the steaming dinner and involuntarily let out a quiet whine.

“Impeccable timing,” Ronan quipped.

“Were you bringing me, like, dinner in bed?”

“I sure as hell hope you weren’t studying in bed. Bad for your spine, I keep telling you,” Ronan shot back. Then: “But yeah, that was the plan.”

Peter awwed at the gesture. It was so heartwarming that there were people out there who actually cared about whether or not he starved to death in the pits of his dusty, crappy hermit hole of a bedroom. Also, it was a consistent reminder that he desperately needed to manage his lifestyle the slightest bit more effectually.

“This is lovely,” he finally said. “You’re lovely. But, not in here, please. If I have to breathe in the sweet smell of tuition debt for another minute I’m gonna lose my mind and go on a bloodthirsty rampage down the street.”

As far as reasons went, it was understandable.

Ronan raised his (impressive) eyebrows infinitesimally and stepped back, allowing passage through the narrow corridor.

“After you, then.”

The walk to the hobbit sized dining setup took a quarter of a second. Ronan put the plate down in the spot from across his own, and sat. Peter paused for a moment, wondering how he went from guzzling instant mac & cheese on his pigsty-esque, mildew infested couch, to this. This being:

“Zucchini and rosemary frittata with parmesan,” Ronan told him, just in case. Peter concluded that that must have been the weird-ass, cucumber looking vegetable he’d spotted amidst the grocery bags.

“I’m not one for excessive prayers,” Peter said to that, “but you’re a literal godsend right now.”

If the whatever-it-was-called was the slightest bit as good as it looked, Peter was sure he would crumble to pieces and be reborn from the ashes like a relatively tired, underfed phoenix. That, or he would repay Ronan for his kindness with a very special kind of reward. The possibilities were endless.

One bite in and Peter was near sobbing with gratitude. Ronan had saved his life.

So, “You saved my life,” was what he said, just in case the sentiment wasn’t clear enough on his face. All that was missing were tear streaks and runny mascara and he’d be the very definition of sophomore year trainwreck.

Ronan snorted in a very un-classy, inelegant manner, unlike his usual repertoire. “I’m sure that’s exaggerating.”

Modesty, too, was not one of his habits.

“I apologize for doubting you. You did good,” Peter insisted. “You did so good and I’m going to tear up a little right now, if you don’t mind.”

“There’s three times as many leftovers in the fridge. Tinfoiled into portions, so you don’t have to struggle with cutting it up. Entirely painless, requires no effort; which means you have a moderately balanced diet set up for the next few days.”

“Ha,” Peter said, very eloquently, before stuffing another forkful into his mouth.

Ronan waited for further comments in patient silence, albeit frowning, at the elaborate _ha_.

Peter kept inhaling the frittata, swinging the fork at an inhuman speed, down and back up again, before finally setting it down on his empty plate.

He explained, “I mean, _ha_ , there will be no leftovers. I’m bringing this to the picnic thing tomorrow.”

Ronan brightened up at that, which made a strange contrast with how his entire expression fell. He pushed his seat back, scraping against the flooring, and took both his and Peter’s plates with him to the sink.

“About that — I’m not going.”

“You’re joking.”

“I’m not going.”

“Yes, you are, Ronan, what the hell.”

“I’m not on buddy terms with any of your friends, and Rocket especially. Who’s to say he won’t try to execute another attempt on my life?”

Peter slumped lower in his chair. “The thing with the hammer was an accident.”

“He nearly killed me,” Ronan stated. His conviction was commendable.

“Pff. He wasn’t aiming at you,” Peter reiterated, “I think. He’s gonna be showing off on his new skateboard. He’ll have little time for murder.”

Ronan, who was standing by the sink with no intention of doing the dishes (he’d shopped, he’d cooked — someone else (Peter) could handle cleanup), didn’t look too sold on the idea.

“I’m gonna be fucking bored.”

“ _I’ll_ be there,” Peter teased, as if that was the only thing that really mattered in the end. And maybe, it just was.

“Small mercies,” Ronan muttered. There was a shadow of a fond smile playing on his lips, and that was a lot coming from the guy who wouldn’t show emotion if his own life, and the fate of the universe as they knew it, was at stake.

“So, you’re coming.”

It wasn’t phrased as a question.

“Very non-negotiable. You’re not leaving room for a counterargument.”

“It’ll be fun.”

“Mm,” Ronan mumbled noncommittally; still nonplussed, still wary.

“And you know what else will be fun?” Peter suggested, inching away from the table in a manner that could only be described as seductive. Or, pseudo-seductive. He was trying his best.

“Is that a line?” Ronan asked. “Are you giving me a line right now? That is so bad. So bad. Does it sound good to you, in your head?”

“Stop being condescending and let me tell you what my fun idea is,” Peter snapped, just the smallest bit pouty. He walked right up to Ronan and stood on his toes to whisper in his ear.

There was a lingering moment of suffocating silence, then an equally suffocated answer on Ronan’s part, before he was bodily pulled into the bedroom; books be damned.

“Yeah, yeah — let’s do that.” 

 

/

 

“ _No_ ,” Rocket announced, the very second Peter turned the corner and came into view with Ronan at his side. “No, no, no. This wasn’t the deal.”

“What deal?” asked Drax, because he never really did know what was going on. To a great extent, he was a close friend; but the reasons behind that were indeterminate.

Peter didn’t let a little bit of negativity get in the way of their get-together. “But we have _food_.”

Rocket deflated, then blew right back up and grimaced. “I don’t want you two rubbing your fake cooties in our faces. This is a family safe zone, and you’re promoting deceitful relationships.”

“Let it go,” Ronan said. Succinct and concise.

He’d known all along that none of Peter’s friends would take kindly to his tagging along to the outing; so it came as no surprise that Rocket was on the verge of blowing steam from his ears as he shouted obscenities. Still, it felt discouraging. And weird.

But that could’ve had more to do with the fact that they were camped out under a huge tree at the edge of a skate park; and were all acting like it was nothing out of the ordinary.

Groot was knitting (for fuck’s sake), entirely ignoring Rocket’s outbursts, and didn’t seem to be in a talkative mood. It wasn’t exactly a revelation, but Ronan could appreciate one less enemy on the battlefield, one less mouth spewing expletives.

Rocket was still talking, completely disregarding the simple idea that the sole purpose of a picnic was to soak in some sun, be at one with nature; rather than engage in a screaming fest of the teenage-girls-at-a-boyband-concert variety.

“I can’t wrap my head around this shit. You’re _still_ doing this,” he ranted on, “this — two-faced deception. Lies. Trickery. Fraud. Hoax. _Chicanery_.”

“I’m sorry about him,” Gamora offered from her spot beneath the tree. She was filing her nails in a manner akin to how one would sharpen a weapon. It made for quite the sight. She gestured towards Rocket with the file. “He must’ve swallowed a thesaurus this morning.”

That was all she had to contribute on the matter.

Peter sat in the corner of the checkered blanket (courtesy of Groot, what a cliché), and motioned for Ronan to do the same. They bided their time that way: took their seats following Gamora’s inarguable words of wisdom, while Rocket recovered from her blow. This way he wouldn’t yell and tackle them to the ground as they attempted to sit.

Peter slung his bag onto his lap and pulled out a couple of Tupperware containers. “Frittata, anyone?”

Gamora eyed them suspiciously. It was homemade, no way to hide that, and Peter had never excelled at the culinary arts. “Where’d you get that from?”

Peter snapped his mouth shut and smiled a tight lipped smile.

_(“Don’t tell them I made it,” Ronan had insisted._

_“Why the hell not?”_

_“’Cause they’ll accuse me of replacing olive oil with bleach, and no one’s gonna have a good time after that.”)_

“My lovely neighbor, Miss Rushman, brought it up yesterday evening,” Peter lied. It was a low maintenance cover: he did have a neighbor by that name, and he did receive the frittata the previous day. No one had to know the two facts weren’t correlated. “It’s great. All of you should try it.”

Groot opened his mouth.

Peter beat him to the punch. “Yes, it’s vegetarian.”

Groot smiled.

And Drax — he was already halfway done devouring one of the portions. He looked happy enough with it, which had been all the more reason not to tell anyone the true origin. Had he found out, he’d have thrown it across the park, pulverized it with a blowtorch, then fixed Ronan with two black eyes. The cause behind their animosity was still undisclosed to the masses. It was better they didn’t interact at all.

With everyone placated, to whatever degree, Peter exhaled, leaning back on Ronan’s shoulder. It was a casual gesture, radiating volumes of familiarity and affection. Naturally, Rocket just narrowed his eyes.

 

An hour later, Ronan figured he’d grasped most of the mismatched group’s quirks and behaviors. In conclusion, it made no sense that they were friends, any of them.

Rocket had fucked off not ten minutes prior, rolling off on his skateboard, phone in hand, blindly following after some map on his phone. Could’ve been a game; Ronan didn’t care. At least it was quiet.

Drax had been there for the food. Though he’d tried to hide it, at least a little, keyword: _tried_ , it was plain as day that his sole purpose had been acquiring a free lunch. He exchanged some pleasantries with the others, made some bold unfiltered comments in his trademark straightforward manner, then offered a half-assed excuse about a family crisis and went home. He was as subtle as a sledgehammer.

In contrast, Groot stuck to his own corner; with his knitting needles and flower crowns, and it was all so _gentle_ that Ronan felt like reevaluating his entire life. How the guy stuck around with Rocket, fiery temper versus the human embodiment of a cotton ball, the world would never know. Perhaps it was a balance, the other’s traits falling in sync with the opposite. Puzzle pieces coming together — how poetic.

Peter was a whole other story. Cheerful and animated, laying down with his head on Ronan’s lap as he told story after story, anecdote after anecdote; seemingly untroubled by the, quote, _shitload of studying_ , unquote, he claimed he still had to do that very evening. But that was a problem for later. For the time being, he had a lot to say and everyone was more than willing to listen — the others weren’t particularly verbal.

Save for Rocket. He had no problem interrupting Peter in between every other sentence. All the more reason his departure, albeit temporary, had been a blessing from the high heavens.

“I can’t tell if he’s playing you two,” Gamora said suddenly. And _she_  — she was unreadable. A long-time acquaintance from Ronan’s past with Nebula. He’d stopped trying to figure her out within weeks from meeting her.

Peter tilted his head up. “Hm?”

She went on: “He’s constantly so distracted — trying to find a flaw in your game, a chink in the armor.”

“You of all people should know this isn’t a — ”

She held her hand up to silence Ronan’s rebuttal. He complied and fell silent. Groot marveled at her power over his cross stitches.

“ _I_ know. Does he? — Not so sure. And that’s what’s driving me up the wall. Not only is he spending way too much time and putting in way too much intellectual effort into exposing this imagined charade, but he’s starting to drag the rest of us down with him. He’s inducing paranoia, and I can’t fucking focus on anything anymore.”

Peter coughed.

Ronan countered her words: “So, what? Are we supposed to put on a big performance to persuade him? It was _your_ call to stop the gee whiz sellout act.”

“Please,” Gamora said. “It was my call to convince you two to get your heads out of your asses and genuinely hook up. But if you get anywhere near that touchy-feely extravaganza you used to display for him, I’m gonna pack my shit up and leave. I have zero patience for it. That train left the station when you started sucking faces with my sister.”

Peter shot up into a sitting position, now agitated. “Then, what _do_ you suggest? Groot, ideas?”

All eyes went to the guy in question. He shrugged, set his whatever-it-was he was making down on the blanket.

“Rocket’s a stubborn idiot,” he started, and no one could argue with that. “The truth wouldn’t permeate his thick skull if you drilled it open with an industrial jackhammer and physically shoved it inside.”

No one could argue with that, either. And Ronan was slightly concerned by the worryingly specific wording Groot had chosen.

A curtain of silence fell over the whole group, only to be interrupted seconds later by a crash and string of curses. In Spanish.

Rocket, flat on his ass with his skateboard overturned at his side, was glaring venomously at his phone. Once he’d had enough of that, he gathered up his gear and his dignity, and trudged back over to the blanket.

“The Pidgey got away.”

Groot looked at him pityingly — whether it insinuated moral support or profound concern for Rocket’s wellbeing no one would ever know. They really did seem to share a deep-seated connection, which made Rocket’s doubts all the weirder. How someone in a steady relationship could be so terribly bent on denying another’s was vexing.

Peter chose that moment to go against every warning he’d gotten in the past five minutes. He got Rocket’s attention with a hollered, “Watch _this_  — ” and swiveled in his spot to face Ronan, planting a fervent kiss on his lips.

Ronan stilled, because Peter had explicitly been told _not_ to do just that. And then he melted into the embrace, because how the hell could he resist.

Gamora got up and left.

That left Rocket, half-snarling in disgust; and Groot, ignoring the entire display in favor of returning to his crafts.

Peter pulled away with an obscene _mwah_ , and flashed his sparkly bright eyes at Ronan, who frowned in admonishment; then redirected the grin at Rocket.

Rocket’s whole demeanor transformed into that of an expressionless statue. He’d picked up a trick or two from Gamora over the years, and took to using her foolproof ways of intimidation.

Ronan took that as a cue to follow in Gamora’s footsteps and pack up. Peter snapped his head around to stare at him in surprise.

“No,” he insisted. “We have to help him _see_.”

“He wouldn’t _see_ if we exchanged vows at the altar,” Ronan concluded, and climbed to his feet. He dusted off his jeans and turned to leave, nodding at Groot in lieu of goodbye. Groot was harmless — he deserved a civil exchange.

Peter stayed behind a moment longer, staring incredulously at Rocket.

“Fuck, was that a proposal?”

Rocket rolled his eyes at Peter’s bullshit with a displeased groan and slumped down beside Groot. If no one else would play along with his quest to unearth the truth, he’d badger Groot until he cracked; seduce him with offers of Netflix marathons of those shows he loved so much, and Rocket hated.

In the end, nothing ever got resolved. The normalcy was astounding.

 

/

 

Ronan pushed open the door to the Galaxy, the cheerful little bells announcing his arrival. It was an ungodly hour, traffic near non-existent, streetlamps illuminating empty roads.

Peter jumped at the unexpected sound, jumping up from where he’d been crouching behind the counter, multitasking: wiping down a particularly resilient stain, taking minute long naps between each stroke of the sponge.

“Do you know what time it is?”

Peter, once he’d realized the visitor was just Ronan, rather than an armed assailant, tiredly grumbled something incoherent, followed by a louder remark:

“I’m literally losing track of time. It’s an illusion. A manmade concept. Lies, lies, lies. It isn’t real.”

“Yes,” Ronan played along, not even bothering to conceal his patronizing tone, “I most definitely understand. I’m familiar with your symptoms, though. My diagnosis would be _exhaustion,_ and it’s typical in overworked students who spend all night and all day cramming for their final and then still take on the evening shift at work the next day. How you expected _not_ to pass out at some point is beyond me.”

“Okay, what time is it?” Peter challenged. He couldn’t fathom how late it could possibly be for a concerned Ronan to actually come knocking. But it was sweet, or so some relatively lucid part of his mind supplied, that Ronan cared enough to make the drive uptown.

“Quarter to eleven. Imagine my surprise when I pull into the parking lot and see the place still open.”

Peter tossed the sponge he’d been using into the sink (missing by two or three feet, boy, was he delirious) and turned back around to face Ronan.

“In my defense, I probably fell asleep at some point — like, on the counter. Must’ve thought a power nap would help —  _shit_ , someone coulda robbed me. My _god_ , Yondu would have my head. And my legs, and my arms, and my — ”

Ronan nodded mutely, pretending to take the incoherent raving very seriously. Unless Yondu were to legitimately threaten a certain part of Peter’s anatomy that Ronan held quite dear, then shit would well and truly hit the fan.

He settled for a placating tip. “Please keep this in mind the next time you take an eight hour shift after a twenty six hour cramming session. Don’t make me have to worry about you.”

Peter stared at him for a few seconds, because the words had no meaning. It was that point in the semester when taking a break was irrational, lest one take a too-long breather and lose motivation entirely.

Instead of agreeing to the unrealistic terms, Peter turned in a circle, only slightly swaying. Not only was he on the verge of integral weariness, but there was an added jitter to his fingers, working its way up his arms, no doubt stemming from the numerous cups of coffee he’d drained over the past days to keep his motor running.

“Okay,” he finally said, “help me wipe down those last tables and we’ll get going.”

Ronan looked appalled. Or amused — it was hard to tell, what with Peter’s vision swimming around. By this point, he was pretty certain he could hear colors, and didn’t even find it odd.

“I only came to make sure you weren’t dead in a ditch somewhere,” Ronan explained; slowly and steadily, in case Peter’s hearing was deteriorating as well, “not to do your job for you. I won’t let you coerce me into doing what you’re getting paid to do — takes points off your valuable work experience.”

Peter gave that some thought. Ronan wasn’t wrong, but Peter was tired and slowly losing his mind, so he figured it fell within the realm of appropriate significant other behavior for Ronan to offer assistance. Regardless of how much of an asshole Ronan was, there had to be _something_ important enough to melt his ice-capped heart.

With the way Peter stood in the middle of the room, absolutely motionless, mulling his deliberations over in his poorly responsive mind, Ronan was momentarily worried he’d fallen asleep standing up. It wasn’t a pretty picture: one zombie-like Peter Quill, motionless and dead eyed; the low buzzing sound from the overhead lights completing the perfect post-apocalyptic image.

What came out, eventually, was Classic Peter Repertoire —

“So, you say you won’t let me _coerce_ you into helping me, but maybe I could _seduce_ you, instead — ?”

Peter stumbled a little and Ronan rolled his eyes. Sexy, very sexy indeed. Quill was irresistible as the tripped over his own feet, barely catching the edge of a table to prevent a painful, integrally embarrassing face-to-floor collapse.

“I’m waiting in the car.”

And that would’ve been the end of that, had Peter not decided he was tired enough to break out the truly bad jokes.

He whined like a denied child, then fired off a suggestive: “What? You don’t wanna ruin your manicure?”

Because tired Peter was actually a lot like drunk out of his mind Peter. It just sparked his natural ability to say whatever was on his mind without it passing through his (virtually nonexistent) brain-to-mouth filter first.

Admittedly, Ronan did have very nice nails. He had very nice hands in general. Very nice, big hands — mm, _okay_ , not a good time, Quill.

There was a beat; Ronan closed his eyes and allowed himself a deep, refreshing sigh. He was on the verge of genuinely turning on his heel and heading out to the parking lot to wait. But then:

“Please, Ronan.”

Peter’s voice was heart-wrenching and so, so empty that Ronan was taken aback by the lurch in his chest, the triple backflip his heart went ahead and did without his explicit permission. He never was good at maintaining human attachments, possibly because he never went along with those feelings.

Yet, making an effort was mandatory. Despite the potential chips in the manicure Ronan hadn’t even gotten done.

“Fine,” he forced out, “I’ll do the tables and you get yourself cleaned up. The sooner you get out of here, the better. This cannot be conducive to your health.”

The last part was mumbled, the disbelief raging: the rich would never understand minimum wage jobs, and why people actually flocked to make a grab at those ten dollars an hour. There was no use trying to wrap his head around it.

And Peter, as nice a guy as he was, found himself too tired to even express his gratitude. He forgot how to words. A light in the far back had started clinking and flickering. On-off. On-off. That, and the buzzing, and he was soon pulling his apron off in a haunted daze.

He didn’t remember clicking off the refrigerated displays, nor could he recall arming the security system and locking the front doors, yet there he was in the passenger’s seat of Ronan’s car.

At least, he hoped those tasks had been completed, looking back on it. There was no recollection of the previous fifteen minutes, but he was too tired to wonder how his life would roll on once Yondu tore his crown jewels off for blatantly disregarding his responsibilities.

He stared out the window, his head against the glass, idly watching the passing streetlights above. That, and the tiny stars dotting the relatively clear sky, made for a welcome balm following a too-long period of exertion.

“ — you gonna make me coffee?”

The words came out unbidden, and the appalled reply was instantaneous.

“The hell, Quill, _no_. Go to sleep.”

Peter pouted for a minute, bottom lip stuck out in a juvenile fashion. Ronan glanced off the road at the man-child beside him, and had to admit the whole picture was too precious for words. However, it didn’t dissuade him from the iron resolution never to make Peter coffee again. Ever, in his lifetime.

“Your car needs a name — ”

It became very apparent that Peter had a questionable understanding of the phrase _go to sleep_. Alternatively, he was already asleep and mumbling through his subconscious. Either way, Ronan’s car most certainly did not need a name.

“ — how about, the _Dark Aster_?”

“Please go to sleep.”

 

/

 

Around noon the next day, Peter shot up in bed with a panicked gasp. He’d flickered in and out of sleep all morning, barely registering the bright sunlight seeping in past the blinds. Eventually realization hit and he was wide awake and upright.

“ _Fuck_ ,” was the first word out of his system, because it was noon and he was most certainly late for —

“It’s Saturday,” a voice from beside him reminded him, and — oh, Ronan was there. And they were at Ronan’s place.

The events from the previous night swam in, slightly blurry, possibly patchy. Peter had fallen asleep in Ronan’s car, then woken up for the quick walk to the elevator, then the apartment.

Peter deflated, initial worry subsiding, and glanced down. He was clad in an oversized t-shirt and his boxers — Ronan must’ve had a hell of a hard time getting him out of the skinny jeans he was wearing the previous day. Though, they’d been cutting off his circulation and it only made sense that Ronan couldn’t let him spend the night within their confines.

“Why didn’t you get anyone to replace you last night?” Ronan asked. “You almost died.”

He was leaning back against his favorite oversized pillow, sitting up with his laptop on his knees. Peter was far more intently focused on the mug of coffee at Ronan’s bedside: sweet and steaming, the scent swirling around the room and beating against Peter’s muddled brain. He wanted to inject the blessed caffeine into his bloodstream, and he wanted to do it now.

Peter cleared his throat. He may have been drooling. “Rocket had date night, and Carina got a call from her other boss. The shady white haired guy from the museum. I wouldn’t try and oppose him, either.”

“You’re no use to me dead,” Ronan said, strangely sentimental taking into consideration the wording he used.

To which Peter replied with a desperate: “Can I have your coffee?”

Ronan soundlessly complied, passing the mug over to Peter and his needy grabby hands. Peter grasped it like his life depended on it; as if it were a lifeline, a life jacket, and he was sinking like Jack in fucking _Titanic_.

He drained it in one go. Ronan wasn’t even surprised.

“Thank you,” Peter said after a moment. “I guess. I mean, for saving my ass yesterday. Bringing me home. I mean, here. My part-time home. The one with the great shower. I’m gonna have to use that shower.”

Ronan snapped his laptop shut without further commentary.

Peter took the hint.

“Oh, do you need to go, too?”

“Yeah, I think I do.”

Peter set down the now-empty mug on the bedside table on his end. He turned back around and wrung his hands in his lap, cocking his head to the side in a display of thoughtfulness.

“I read this article last week. Protecting the environment is a real big deal.”

Ronan nodded along mutely.

“We might have to shower together to save water.”

Ronan pursed his lips. “Yeah, I think you may be right.”

 

Some time later, following an ardent makeout session beneath the steady stream of the shower (they didn’t save any water whatsoever), once Peter had almost broken his neck trying to — never mind what he’d been trying to do, exactly; the shower floor was slippery and thank god for Ronan’s steadying grip — they’d landed right back where they began.

Ronan, flat on the bed, with his damp hair sticking out every which way; and Peter, horrendously tangled up in the bedsheets at his side. It was quiet, shockingly peaceful, until:

“I think I’m getting old,” Ronan said miserably. He was more than slightly breathless, and Peter took a moment to revel in the effect he had on him, on the things he could do to drive Ronan past the breaking point.

“Why so?”

It took a great deal of effort to cover up the strain in his own voice, Peter realized.

“I don’t think I can go for a round two.”

Peter snorted, and Ronan turned over on his side, propping his head up on his elbow. He glared at Peter in mock disbelief.

“What, and you _can_ ?”

Peter met his eyes and held his gaze for as long as he could before he wilted under their intensity.

“No.”

Ronan scoffed, mirroring Peter’s previous contempt, and dropped back down amidst his pillows. He ran a hand through his hair, attempting to tame the flyaway strands. It did him no good, however remarkable his genes.

“My god, we’re getting old,” Peter concluded, echoing Ronan’s observation. “I’m barely done with college, and here I am, unable to fucking sit up after going once.”

“In your defense, it was quite straining; what you did. Almost cracked your head open on the tiles.”

“How romantic.”

Pillow talk with Ronan always did reach a very specific degree of romance. If one could call their snappy banter romantic, which few did.

“Look,” Ronan continued, “next time you decide to get on your knees and — ”

And the front door burst open.

First thought: a break-in. Second: probably not a break in, because someone was running straight for the bedroom: short, staccato footsteps against the floorboards.

Peter tried for decency, but was stuck; wrapped within the covers in an inexplicable fashion. Ronan, on the other hand, scowled in preparation, almost as if he knew all too well who was about to rush inside.

In a grandiose swoop that surprised literally no one, Rocket ducked inside the bedroom, fully prepared to catch them both minding their own business, rather than legitimately engaging in physically strenuous activities. Peter was just thankful that Rocket hadn’t invited himself in just ten minutes prior, should he have witnessed a front row view of someone’s naked ass.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Rocket gasped. He’d seen all he needed to see. “ _Fuck_. This is for real.”

“Get out of my house,” Ronan replied simply. He didn’t even bother lifting his head from his pillow. However questionable his sense of decency, his hatred for Rocket’s antics far surpassed it. He’d lay around in his birthday suit for hours on end if it meant torturing the guy into bleaching out his eyeballs.

Peter didn’t share the feeling.

Very abashed and wholly embarrassed, he tucked the covers up to his neck as he scooted back towards the headboard.

“Rocket, could you maybe, perhaps, leave? And we’ll continue this another time? This is stressing me out.”

Rocket giggled, high pitched and entirely hysterical. “Ha. Yeah. Sure. Nice sex hair.”

And he was gone. Ronan hoped, prayed on a deep spiritual level, that Rocket would indeed scrub his brain with a highly toxic substance. Good riddance.

Seconds ticked by in deafening silence, then the front door slammed shut. Some more silence, then:

“Did you leave the door open when you dragged me inside last night? Because, holy shit, that would’ve been a dick move.”

Ronan shook his head and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, getting up. He was in desperate need of another coffee, possibly with a spike of brandy this time around. Day drinking was acceptable in dire situations, and this was the very definition of such a case.

“Please,” he said, “I’m not that thoughtless.”

On the bright side, Rocket would be out of their hair forever. Ronan wouldn’t blame Rocket if he could never look either of them in the eyes again. It was highly preferable that way.

“Don’t tell me Rocket knows how to pick a lock. That’d be the final straw. I wouldn’t ever feel safe again.”

Ronan paused on his way out, leaning against the doorframe as he shot a meaningful look at Peter.

“You know, something tells me this wasn’t his idea.”

 

Peter had frowned, pathetically clueless, as Ronan had ducked out the door. And he’d remained out of the loop, stupidly frowning at himself, alone in bed, until his phone buzzed with an incoming message.

He clicked on the screen and barked out a laugh.

 **from** : _gamora_ [1:37 PM] you can thank me later


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